Call to Arms

The elit­ists strived to exclude
your soul wit from the cov­et­ed ech­e­lons
of war­riors-poets of the ink well
try­ing to con­trol the uncon­trol­lable winds

those that chan­neled and har­nessed raw
pas­sion, fresh as Tokyo sushi
into bright wings of alive­ness
instill an infu­sion of love for noth­ing at all

I came to tell you, you don’t need an advanced degree
or an IQ of 170, and to have been gross­ly dam­aged
nor a can­cer sur­vivor
there are nat­ur­al born prodi­gies out there

born with bor­ing, hard lives and strug­gled in dis­hon­ors Engr­ish
who, for them Folger’s ins­ta cof­fee was Star­bucks
and Aldi’s was their Whole­foods
we musn’t judge the real­i­ties of genius­es

I give you gems of gen­eros­i­ty and uplift
like I do my left­over Puer­to Rican steak sand­wich to
the Navy vet­er­an ask­ing for spare change at the
entrance to I-94

remem­ber, poet­ry is prayer and vice ver­sa
you’re oblig­at­ed my broth­ers and sis­ters to
pour your­selves in ink and stretch across those
pages of rice paper

all the while, with a secret smile
and a rit­u­al you call your own
the beau­ti­ful tapes­tries of your thought life

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